


Naked Nap Time

by Lovefushsia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Flustered John, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Naked Sherlock, Oblivious Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5923027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovefushsia/pseuds/Lovefushsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John walks in on Sherlock on the sofa. He has to avert his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naked Nap Time

John did his usual glance around as he walked into the living room, he did a double take as he saw the sofa, and what was on the sofa. Sherlock. Naked Sherlock. It looked like he had started under the blanket which was now on the floor, but maybe he’d rolled in his sleep and now there was only skin.

He was snoring.

John crept across to him, grabbed the blanket and looked the other way whilst trying to cover his friend. He risked a look back towards the sofa when he thought he’d done the job - thankfully all covered. He tugged the blanket up to Sherlock’s chin so he didn’t get cold, resisted laying a gentle hand on his forehead to check his temperature, and moved back across to his own seat. He pulled out his phone and wallet, put them on the side table and went to make some tea. It was only 7pm, Sherlock might wake up and a hot drink would be good so he made two cups and went back to sit down.

A rustle on the sofa made him glance across and John couldn’t look away. Sherlock’s hand popped out from under the blanket and scratched his nose and then his face settled again and he looked as peaceful as John had ever seen him - full lips set in a slight pout, dark eye lashes laying perfectly against his cheeks. John’s tea sat forgotten as he watched, entranced by the slight quiver of an intake of breath, the light rise and fall of the blanket over his bare chest. He knew he was torturing himself, he should get up, go to bed, leave Sherlock here to wake in the morning and hopefully find the time to get dressed before John had to face him again.

But he didn’t move. Not until Sherlock rolled onto his back, dislodging the blanket and John gasped and went to stand up, ready to run this time, but Sherlock’s eyes flew open at the sound and John froze. Oh God.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, going from sleeping to confused and panicked within a moment.

John was mid-stand, hands on the arms of the chair as he stared into Sherlock’s face, eyes wide and desperately not looking anywhere else. “You fell asleep, without your pants again.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock looked down at himself, back at John and then around for the blanket. He tugged it slowly over his body and John sat down in relief. “Is that tea?” Sherlock asked and he moved again, shifted to sit up and John was greeted once again to more than his imagination could handle.

It was too much. “I’ve, er... got to be somewhere... somewhere else,” he stammered as he scrambled out of the chair and across the room. He flew down the stairs and out into the refreshing chill of the night air. He stopped on the opposite pavement, hands on his knees, trying to focus on anything but his feelings. It wasn’t far enough, Sherlock’s voice came down to him and John looked up to the open window of their flat.

“John, are you ok?”

“No, not really,” John called back.

“It’s cold in here, fire’s going out. Can you come back up?”

“To stoke the fire? No! Do it yourself.”

“Please John.”

John sighed and stepped back as two people wandered by glancing between him and the half-naked man at the window.

“Will you get dressed?” John called finally.

“I am dressed,” Sherlock said, still sounding confused, and John saw him gesturing to his bloody blanket and huffed in resignation. He checked for traffic and marched back across the road. Maybe he could get a blindfold. Or make sure all the lights were out before he entered a room.

He got back up to the kitchen and put the kettle on to make himself feel better. When he went back into the living room Sherlock wasn’t there. John poked around with the fire for a moment until he heard his friend behind him. He risked a peek over his shoulder and there was a dressing gown in place of the blanket now. He closed his eyes and gave a silent prayer of thanks.

“Better?” Sherlock asked as John sat back in his chair.

John nodded, not ready to explain exactly why he had been so agitated earlier and grateful that his friend didn’t ask. “Tea,” he said gesturing to where he had put Sherlock’s fresh cup.

“Thank you, John. So what did I miss?”

And they were back to normal. For now.


End file.
